


Woven Out of Ink

by Nova880



Category: Batim - Fandom, Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: A lot - Freeform, Angst, Gen, Kinda, Sadness, Sharing a mind, asdfasfsdadasafsd, conflicting povs, i dont even know, ink ink ink, like. its mentioned, sooooo much ink, this, uugh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 15:02:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16600208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nova880/pseuds/Nova880
Summary: Henry is Perfect Bendy. Except not really. There seems to be a whole lot of missing memories...





	Woven Out of Ink

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in a fit of insanity at 3am. Running on coffee right now. I'm pretty sure reality is a lie.

It’s dark. Why’s it dark? ...What is “dark”? 

 

He was wet. Who’s he? What’s “wet”? 

 

He needed to escape. But from where? This was all I’ve ever known. 

 

It’s cold, and wet, and dark. Maybe. Is it? Those words have little meaning to me. 

 

. . .

 

He pulled himself out of the ink, grunting with the effort. So much ink, everywhere. It’s not easy to separate my body from what it’s made of. What was he made of? ...I don’t know. 

 

Walking. He plodded down old hallways, toon boots making rotting floorboards creak and groan. They hadn’t supported weight for a long time, too long. Where am I going? Am I going somewhere? Where is he? He doesn’t know. Somewhere, he thinks. Somewhere lower. Somewhere he barely remembers, strings of memory loosening in the ink.

 

Ink, I’m surrounded by ink. It’s what I’m made of. But that didn’t matter, I thought, as he pushed the tape button. A maybe-not-so-familiar voice fills the room. Joey Drew, his mind manages to supply, as faint, fleeting memories of dreams, too big to succeed, an arrogant smile, a friendly voice... Those aren’t my thoughts. I’ve never been through any of this, right? But then, why…?

 

Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming. Dream too big and you will fail. A twisted star roams these halls, failures personified. 

 

Dreaming couldn’t save him. 

 

. . . 

 

Wreckage, it’s a mess. Steel bars gleam in the dim studio light, wood splinters piercing his hands where I touch the heap. Red, there’s crimson on the ground. I don’t know what it is. He’s silent, I can’t remember. There’s so much ink here. 

 

A friend was lost, stolen here. Maybe. Do I remember? 

 

. . . 

 

Nothing, I remember nothing as he drags a twisted leg down the hall. I am failures personified. The cycle will continue, always. It has to.

 

There’s so much despair among the ink. Madness, lost souls clawing their way out of the puddles, only to be sent back in. Crushed hopes and broken hearts.

 

But that’s what dreams are made of.

 

That’s what it takes to succeed. 

 

 

...Right?

**Author's Note:**

> whaaaaaaaaaaat was that 
> 
> Also, feedback keeps me alive


End file.
